


Stay As Long As You Need

by HQ_Wingster



Series: Chasing Covers & Finding You [12]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Affection, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blankets, Character Study, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Baggage, Emotions, Established Relationship, Extended Metaphors, Feelings, Heart-to-Heart, Hugs, Inspired by Poetry, Introspection, Literal Sleeping Together, Living Together, M/M, Morning Kisses, POV Tom Riddle, Prose Poem, Realization, Relationship Study, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Sleepiness, Some Plot, Tenderness, Tension, Touching, Trust, Understanding, Vulnerability, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28692924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HQ_Wingster/pseuds/HQ_Wingster
Summary: Because when you’ve known something for ten years and have used it for just as long — where no longer was it a habit, but an instinct at this point — could you find yourself changing it or find yourself moving on? Were [Tom] younger, he might’ve done it. But as of now, he could not.Perhaps there would always be feelings he could never find a word for; but for as long as he’s had Harry, it hasn’t been an issue if he couldn’t name them.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Chasing Covers & Finding You [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100486
Kudos: 28





	Stay As Long As You Need

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Sensory Prompt #10:  _ doing everything in your power so you can have your lover for a little longer before the morning will inevitably separate you both from the other _
> 
> Fellow peeps, writers and readers — let us ignore the fact that everything I’ve written for this pairing so far revolves around sleeping (or the lack of it), a very soft and human and a menace named Tom, a Harry that’s understanding and a bit comedic in what he does, and so much indulgence that it makes me stressed while writing it. Because it’s no secret by now that I have a soft spot for soft moments, and it’s my way of figuring out how I want to do things before I dive into other storylines  **^^**
> 
> And as a lovely fun fact: the opening line of this story is 62 words long. Wanted to get it to 69, but I’ve already overstuffed this thing so I didn’t do it. However, I must say that it’s the little things like this that make writing more enjoyable than it already is.
> 
> GENERAL THOUGHTS → Much of this story, and especially the beginning, really reads like spoken-word poetry. So if you get a chance to read this out loud whether in whispers or under your breath, I think you’ll really get into the groove of how this story is meant to be told. And because I’m screwing over and breaking a lot of writing rules, I just had fun with the language and it was exciting.

There would always be feelings he could never find a word for: because no dictionary could define them, no thesaurus could ever try, there were no books for him to turn to, there were no tongues for him to pry because Tom was convinced and he convinced himself of this — he figured what he was looking for couldn’t be found from a human. But that he could find it from  _ the person  _ who had gifted him these feelings and that perhaps, he could just name them after that someone if he wished. However, ten times a thousand would be indistinguishable with that system. Because  _ ‘Harry’  _ during one moment wouldn’t be  _ ‘Harry’  _ during the next because the feelings were too vast to be under the same umbrella. But because he couldn’t figure out another way to do this, or because he was lazy and couldn’t bother to improve it, he learned to contend with all the flaws that this had and to make do with the name he was irrevocably stuck with.

Because when you’ve known something for ten years and have used it for just as long — where no longer was it a habit, but an instinct at this point — could you find yourself changing it or find yourself moving on? Were he younger, he might’ve done it. But as of now, he could not.

Because to change what he had, or what he had grown to adore: Tom would rather be ripped, be tattered, be torn, and be something lesser than what he was to protect what he loved. There was beauty, he had realized and he was glad he had gotten to know, in encapsulating everything, an entire range into one word. So that he didn’t have to fumble or have to feel like a fool when he couldn’t find what he was looking for, when he could barely let out a word. So to ever find him in that situation, he doubted it was worth the trouble. Because why would he want to change this when  _ ‘Harry’  _ was good enough? 

When it was perfect during those moments — before a kiss or whispered word, before a breath of vulnerability or a gaze unperturbed — heavy with the intent he had veered along his tongue, this was a harbinger for passion and for bearing your entire soul. When it was beautiful in the daylight, when it was wondrous beneath the moon: nothing less than a work of art when it could ease him right at home as he would wander through his thoughts, as he would play with another’s locks, as he would look up and say that there was a stranger peering back at him and that they were captivating, a delight, truly someone he wouldn’t fight, as he laid here lost along a lap and was being held throughout the night. And especially when it was  _ ‘Harry’  _ and just  _ ‘Harry’  _ when it came to Tom, needing no adjective to describe it for it itself was enough: he could thread through its namesake with just a finger and his thumb, he could admonish down the jawline with a kiss or with his nose, and he could fast within an absence and be filled by just a look, by the quirk of another’s brow before he was swelled into those arms.

And it was rather funny to the wizard as he glanced back at these examples, prodding at how positive and heartfelt they had been: that it was curious yet not so when he hadn’t thought of anything darker, when he hadn’t plucked a real memory that he knew this name would sure suffice. But it was probably because Tom was no stranger to those emotions. He knew anger, he knew grief, he knew vengeance, he knew deceit, he knew despair and all its cousins, he knew numbness in its entirety for it was nothing but a synonym to reflect upon his being. And these were familiar to Tom: they were as so as his wand, as the back of his own hand, as the stares he had grown with, and as the snake inside of him and those instincts underneath — twisting, turning, heavyset on his bones, flickering as a morsel bit of magic met its jaws.

Those emotions didn’t need Harry for him to feel them so deeply: only their opposites in the light — or in company, as he preferred it — were rather foreign and even dangerous for a man like him to experience. And so whenever he felt them, it was just natural to call them  _ ‘Harry’  _ and so in that way, he wouldn’t be as contrary to take them in. Because if you tore away his every suit and unhinged him from his masks, you’d simply find a little boy who would often flinch at happiness. Believing he didn’t deserve it because of the circumstances he was in, believing that they were nothing but merely lies we’ve told ourselves.

And for a long time, that was true; or so, he believed it to be true. But as with all lies we tell ourselves, they grew paler with the more he knew: with the more he experienced, with the more he saw, with the more he felt from the man he had grown to love.

As ten, as twenty, as hundreds of more feelings careened onto his island since the first time they met each other. And were he to drown from those emotions or to be swept away, he wouldn’t because Harry would’ve been there for him on the horizon. Like a pirate aboard a ship, waving his heart towards his husband or towards his soon-to-be for they were young and merely students when it happened, before he fell from wherever he thought was sturdy at the moment — being a Gryffindor had its perks since he bounced upon impact. And while the memory was rather funny and even cute if he were honest, while the thought never failed to flutter laughter from his lips, it paled in comparison to what he had behind him. As Tom teetered back and stole a glimpse from his husband.

For snoring softly in his sleep and about as innocent as he could be, Harry Potter was oblivious to the alarm clock near his pillow — where its hammer was set to strike within a minute if he didn’t move, if he hadn’t wrestled from a dream and was prepared to turn it off. But as it seemed, he was busy and was content within his thoughts: idly shifting across the mattress and nearly stretching into Tom, behaving more and more like a kneazle as he curled into his own warmth.

And perhaps and maybe later, while they were sharing toast with butter or while he was fishing for Harry’s shoulder to help straighten out his robes, Tom could pry into what he was dreaming and maybe, see what was so fetching. Or perhaps, he could just wait until he was told eventually — Harry would press it into his mouth and would kiss him before leaving, he would etch it with his hands and with his forehead before murmuring that it was a memory from years ago and he wanted to relive it for a moment. And if nudged for what it was, Harry’s answer would’ve been a smile and it would take a bit of swaying to a coax word from his mouth. Because what he dreamed of was a feeling, now fluttering between them both: so that Tom could understand, he’d try to convey it through other senses.

Through touch, through smell, through sight, through sound, and through taste if Tom could manage both his coffee and butter breath: which he wouldn’t have if he was younger, but now he would as an older man. With a wandless bit of magic, he’d freshen him while they kissed. And Harry would mutter he was a show-off, but he always loved that about Tom. And Tom would whisper that he was lying, but there would be ecstasy on his tongue.

However, none of that would occur if the alarm clock was going to ruin it. For it bore a habit of jolting Harry and erasing his thoughts while in the process — so Tom fidgetted from his pillow and reached over towards the nightstand. Fingers braced upon the alarm, it didn’t cost him an ounce of magic to silence its every hammer when six o’ clock began to greet them. However, it did cost him a moment for him to revise what he had done as soon as the clock had grown still while Harry stirred like nothing happened. He was still sleeping and he was still dreaming as Tom settled beside him, chasing for every sheet Harry clung to his person. As if he would die if they weren’t here on his body, but he wasn’t a  _ Parselmouth  _ so the chances weren’t likely.

And were he not amused and hadn’t found this a bit funny, Tom would’ve struck the fear of Merlin into this idiot he had married. He would’ve struck the fear of God into the alarm clock if he willed it so that it would rattle into oblivion until Harry would let go, or until Harry would wake-up and would mutter if he was a child. Because an “accidental bit of magic” wasn't as helpful as using words, and Tom could see himself jabbing back with both his fingers and frigid toes. But fortunately or unfortunately — depending on what you preferred — there was no stabbing of chilly limbs or an argument at the moment. Even though every part of him wanted to play dirty for the blankets, Tom knew he could be civil and that he wouldn’t die anytime soon.

Because the Riddle within his blood wouldn’t allow for that to happen, even if the instincts inside of him thought differently because they could. So as to compromise and to find his ground, he snuggled closer and into Harry: relishing every moment, he took the trouble to keep him here. To indulge within these feelings, within this swirling mesh of  _ ‘Harry’,  _ and for him to know that for himself, he was a little closer to being human — to knowing that what he was afraid of no longer frightened him anymore and that it was something not-impossible for a man like him to endure. As he hugged and just hugged and had breathed his husband in, heart swelling with emotions and where many of which he couldn’t name. But none of that mattered to Tom and for many years, he didn’t care.

Because he had a wonderful little system that made it easier to understand: because  _ ‘Harry’  _ were the goosebumps finding purchase along his skin, not a product from being cold but from feeling rather content;  _ ‘Harry’  _ was the softness he could feel inside of him, stirring about like a snake and as comforting as a real one; because  _ ‘Harry’  _ were the trills of absolute delight accompanying all his hums as Tom held him oh-so-tight; and  _ ‘Harry’  _ was the stillness before it followed another breath and there was a patience spun about it as Tom curled into him. Mumbling into the morning if he could remain here for a while longer, if he could stay and remind him of what it meant to love and to be loved, and if he could lay and just be here until Tom was ready to wake-up.

And while he didn’t expect any answers since he confessed in  _ Parseltongue, _ he wondered if that mattered as Harry stirred underneath him. Because as if he understood, he sprawled the gaps still between them and Harry nuzzled his lovely man as if to reaffirm what he meant to him.

**Author's Note:**

> [ Tumblr](https://joeys-piano.tumblr.com/) |[ Twitter](https://twitter.com/joey_wingster)
> 
> POST-WRITING THOUGHTS → One of my favorite joys about character studies is the fact that I can peel away suits and all the masks a character wears and put them in a position of vulnerability that they can be comfortable in. This is especially fun when I’m writing for mysterious, detached, or heavily-guarded characters. As a writer, I want to breathe another interpretation into them so that they can feel a little more human, a little more malleable for me to understand. Because I truly believe you can learn a lot about character by giving them what they don’t have or have refused for themselves and seeing what they do with it, seeing how it builds on who they already are.
> 
> That’s why for my past few works, I’ve written Tom Riddle in a very specific kind of way that blends some familiar tics from canon, as well as a mesh of how I want to explore the character. And interestingly enough, I keep circling back to my own experiences as an autistic individual whenever I write for Tom and for some of the internal struggles that he has. Because I can relate to it and it’s not hard for me to slip into those shoes and as well, that translates into my writing because I’m slipping him into my own shoes and seeing how he goes about it.
> 
> It was something I didn’t really notice until I started drafting this story, and i’m well-aware that there’s this neurodivergent lens and that it’s especially there in the beginning because that’s something I’ve been through. I’m not that attached to my emotions and especially the ones that feel good. And so to write a character with the approach I’m coming from was a unique challenge for me and that it definitely has an impact on how the character (Tom) thinks and describes himself and the person he really cares for (Harry) and how he shows that.


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